Friday, February 26, 2010

High School Confidential: The Terrifying Teen-Boy

Yesterday I registered my son for High School. Aside from a persistent voice in my head that kept repeating "holy crap...I almost have a kid in High School," it also brought back my own memories of starting High School, which seems like yesterday.

I entered High School at the ripe old age of 13. To make matters worse, my parents had the notion that instead of attending the public High School with all my Jr. High buddies, I should get a "good education" and go to Catholic School - where I knew absolutely no one. The good news was that my 8th grade Olivia Newton-John "Let's Get Physical" haircut had grown out over the summer, so I no longer looked like a pre-pubescent Kirk Cameron. I was also allowed to dye my hair platinum blonde and had a part time job cashiering at my dad's Nursery. My over-the-top salary of $2.37 per hour was sure to keep me decked out in a Contempo Casual wardrobe for eternity. So, decked out in my acid washed purple jeans and over-processed, newly-blonde hair, I ventured out of my suburban shell and started private school in the big city.

Despite my shyness, I eventually made friends with a few girls, including "Erika" who lived mid-town with her lawyer/stoner dad. I was in awe of Erika because she had a long braided tail (a'la Adam Ant) and a magenta-colored stripe in her hair. She slept on a futon mattress on her bedroom floor, had MTV on her color tv 24/7 and actually knew how to use a tampon. Even more fascinating: she used Public Transportation (i.e. the Sun Tran bus) on a regular basis. Up until that point, as a sheltered upper-middle class suburban girl, I'm pretty sure I thought it was illegal to raise children in the mean streets of midtown Tucson, let alone allow them to ride on a bus with drunk old men who, at best, had 4 teeth in their mouth. She was so worldly, she might as well have been Brooke Shields. And while I eventually made a lot of girl friends, I was definitely not what you'd call "popular" - and had never had a boyfriend. So I was shocked when one day I heard through the grapevine that a guy by the name of Matt Benson liked me.

Matt Benson was a popular Senior who played football and wore a Letterman's Jacket. He was good looking (aside from a really bad shiny Albert Brooks-like Afro) and a drove a Mazda Rx-7 - your basic poor-man's Ferrari. While many girls would have been flattered or excited to hear that a senior liked them, I was mortified. First of all, Matt was 18, which in my book might as well have been 36. I was a shy, insecure 14 year old, and he was a full-grown Teen-Man. Clearly this would never work out. I did my best to avoid him in the halls, but couldn't avoid him one night after a football game when he cornered me at a Pizza Parlor and told me a harrowing story about how a few years back he watched his best friend die in his arms. While I think he was trying to impress me, I most likely reacted with a not-so-sensitive roll of my eyes or a sarcastic remark. Shortly thereafter the School Directory came out. Now I was really screwed because Matt Benson had my phone number.

The first time he called me, I was terrified. Worse still, he asked me out on a date to see (wait for it....) the Kevin Bacon blockbuster "Footloose." This is the first time I'd ever been asked out by a boy (let alone a TEEN-MAN). I panicked and agreed to go. Matt said he'd call me Friday after school to get directions to my house. Oh if only Chris Hanson of Dateline's "To Catch A Predator" could have traveled back in a Lamborgheni time machine and saved me. I had a horrifying vision of Matt pulling up in his shiny RX7 and my dad opening the front door, giving him the once-over and flipping the bird (or worse: inviting him in, offering him a Pall Mall and sharing stock market tips).

Once more I avoided Matt Besnon in the halls, because everyone knows that if you ignore a problem it will just go away. I knew that there was no way in hell I was going on this date, so I invited a girlfriend over for moral support the night of the "phantom date." I had my own phone line, but this was way before caller ID or voice mail, and my parents weren't about to buy me my one of those expensive, suitcase-sized, cassette tape playing answering machines. So when the phone rang, I couldn't be sure who it was, but I had a sinking suspicion that it was none other than Matt Benson, calling in to claim his Footloose date. I distinctly remembering my girlfriend and I horrified (but in a "Ha Ha" kind of way) every time the phone rang. "Screw this," I said and my mom drove my friend and I to the mall where we bought two tickets to Footloose... sans Matt Benson.

I never heard from Matt Benson again. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure he thought I was a stuck up bitch who liked to play mind games. But the truth was that I wasn't ready to date a Teen-Man. Besides, I've never had a thing for older guys.


Sunday, February 21, 2010

One Thumb Up...One Thumb Down (way down)

I often fantasize about being a judge on one of my favorite shows, "The Iron Chef." While Val is transfixed by "Hoarders", I am much more into the porn for fat people channel known as The Food Network. I would be a shitty judge however, and with a mouthful of food say deep things like "Mmmmm, good", "Sooo yummy", "Parker like", and maybe something as creative as "Bobby, your Chile Rellano Three Ways is totally orgasmic."

My point to this is that after seeing the movie "Valentine's Day", I'm not really sure how to review it other than to say "Not Good" and "Too Long". I was intrigued by the star-studded cast, but this film is no Robert Altman's "The Player." I kept thinking "thank god I am with my sister and niece because DW would have killed me had I taken him to see this like the time I took him to see "Fossi!" in New York. DW and "jazz hands" are not a good combo. To top things on the way to "Fossi" I left my 20-minute old $500 new sunglasses that DW had just bought me in the cab. In hindsight, I deserved that for spending $500 on sunglasses in the first place.

"Valentine's Day" takes place in LA and having grown up there, seeing certain scenes were very nostalgic. ALso nostalgic was seeing Jessica Beil and Jennifer Garner's bony asses up there on the screen - reminding me of the days when I too could wear designer beaded sleeveless dresses without fear of a pucker or blue vein creeping out. Julia Robert's plays a soldier on leave flying home. Uggg, really? Julia Roberts as a soldier? I later learned that she got paid millions of dollars for her 6 minutes of film time and Oscar worthy lines such as, "That stewardess is flirting with you."

Before the movie started they showed a preview for "Sex and the City 2." While I do love all things Sex and the City, I had to laugh out loud when one particular scene shows the girls walking in line as they always do in the trendy streets of NY but this time they are donning their runway looks in the middle of the desert in Morocco with no civilization in sight (aside from a random camel here and there). I guess they figure Cabo San Lucas was too pedestrian for the sequel. Is it "The Hurt Locker" or "Sex and the City 2"?

On the other end of the spectrum "The Hurt Locker" is an amazing, riveting film and possibly the most realistic and thought provoking war related movie I have ever seen. Two thumbs way up for "The Hurt Locker". Valentine's Day? Not so much.


Friday, February 19, 2010

Who Says Valentine's Day Isn't Romantic

D.W. and I had a fabulous NY vacation planned for Valentine's Weekend. Here's what happened instead:
I woke up the day of our flight and the first words out of my mouth were "Oh Shit." A winter storm had moved in, dumping the largest amount of snowfall in Dallas history. Two inches were predicted however when all was said and done it was 12 inches plus. We briefly considered changing our flight but Southwest said our flight was 'on time' so we decided to buck up and go for it.

As we walked on the plane, the flight attendant told us there were only middle seats available, I mumbled, "Really? $800 for a ticket and I can't sit next to my husband." I turned my head from side to side looking for the least offensive middle seat. Each person was literally obese or had a child on their lap and often the combo of the two. Not that I don't love kids, I just don't want to sit on a petri-dish plane next to one for hours. I was actually elated to discover two seats together on the very last row right in front of the toilet. We soon learned that we were 10th in line for de-icing and then told that were moved back in line. WTF, is Jack Bauer on the plane behind us and must go first or the terrorists will win? Meanwhile I was seated next to a lady who wasn't obese or with a snot-infested child; it was worse: she incessantly asked questions and I realized I was sitting next to my mother's doppelganger. At this point the captain let people deplane if they chose to, and DW and I couldn't' get out fast enough. I bid adieu to "Nancy 2" and my plans for a NY getaway.

At this point, completely f...ed off, if I wasn't going to NY, then neither was my luggage. I did my best Oscar performance complete with welled-up in tears and told the gate agent I had seizures and have my medication in my luggage. He reluctantly took my bag tags and had our wet luggage retrieved from the plane's belly. I felt like one of the girls form the bachelor who, in case she didn't get a rose, has to pack all her shit and instead of going to some remote island to make out with some bachelor tool, is doing the walk of shame. Of course instead of getting in a limo, DW and I had to exit in a white airport parking van idling outside baggage claim.

We picked up our precious Boykin Spaniel headed home, made chili and watched 12 inches of snow fall. With a sinus infection brewing I felt like Christmas had been cancelled. In hind sight were were lucky. At least we had electricity (many of our friends lost it during the snowstorm), and besides honking my nose all day is now way to be fabulous and romantic in New York city.


Tiger Woods doing the Robot

Today is like Christmas for us! The Tiger Wood's press conference just ended and it is full of such great fodder that we couldn't get to the computer fast enough. Here it goes:

First of all, we're pretty sure Tiger has been replaced by a robot. He's literally the black Max Headroom. He should be painted in silver and doing the "robot dance" as he speaks. He could have at least conjured up a crocodile tear or a quivering bottom lip for effect. While he did a half-assed apology to his wife, children, sponsors (i.e. please keep paying me millions Nike), and the children of the world, what he should have said was, "I wanted as much Puntang as I could get and I got it while the getting was good. I'm only sorry that my Playah-ass got caught." Then he somehow brought Buddhism into the picture - because Buddha will make you stop chasing the pussy, Tiger. Somehow towards the end of his speech he became the "victim". Wahhh - you should have thought of that before you fucked everything in sight. If his wife does go back to him (a 19-carat diamond ring and a condo in St. Barts is definitely in order) she should consider wrapping her entire body in Saran Wrap before making any physical contact with him. And by the way, we don't care what he says, Elin totally whipped his ass with the golf club.

After the press conference, I couldn't get to the computer fast enough. There is literally smoke coming off the keyboard because I am typing so fast (Parker is texting me faster than a 13 year old girl). But just when I thought the goodness was over, Gloria Allred and a porn star in a hideous wig from the Raquel Welch collection immediately followed with their own press conference - demanding an apology from Tiger. Oh my god, this is simply magical! I almost spit out my morning Pepsi because it was so comical. I want to listen but am simply mesmerized by her wig, conservative oxford shirt and DDD boobs. Listen up slut, you deserve an apology like Charlie Manson deserves parole. Tiger Woods didn't love you - he loved your easy, free coochie. Now she is claiming that she gave up her "Porn Career" because Tiger was going to be with her forever, and here come the tears. I've got an idea: How about you apologize for being a opportunistic, scum of the earth? Tiger probably doesn't even remember your name. She deserves a Razzie for this performance and Gloria Allred needs to have her license pulled, stat.

Update: Here is the amazing press conference, which is soooo much more entertaining than Tiger's lame apology (fast forward to about the 4-minute mark for some top-notch acting):

-Parker & Val

Monday, February 15, 2010

Undercover Boss and Things that I am Thankful For

As much as I bitch and moan about "getting old", "getting fatter by the moment" and having puffy eyes that rival Benecio del Toro's, there are a few things I am thankful for.

I'm thankful that MySpace, Twitter and Facebook weren't around in the 1980's. Teen angst is hard enough as it is, without preserving all your hopes (wanting to look like Kim Alexis) and dreams (like being the next "Joan Lunden"), and embarrassing crushes (too many to mention). Don't even get me started on the horrendous pictures that would be forever trapped in cyberspace. Back in the day you had to wait 3 days to get your film developed if you wanted to see how great you looked in your smeared blue eyeshadow after chugging 3 Bartles & James. Today not only can you see the picture instantly on a digital camera, you can upload it for millions to see in about 2 seconds. Seriously, I would not want to be a young adult in that kind of world.

Last night I sat through about 90% of a show called "Undercover Boss", which CBS is toting as the "Number #1 new show on television." Of course it is dumbasses, you'd only aired one episode and it was immediately following the Superbowl when everyone was too drunk to change the channel. You could run a show called "The History of Space Dust" right after the Superbowl and it would be #1 as well. But I digress. The thing that most stuck with me during "Undercover Boss" is how fired me and everyone of my bar managers would have been during my waitressing days in college. Undercover Boss would arrive and by the end of the night would have encountered the following: A waitress doing blow in the bathroom (not me); 4 waitress in the walk-in doing shots of vodka (possibly me); a boss asking a waitress if she wants to come over to his aprtment after her shift and listen to "Boz Skaggs" (yes that happened to me).

If any of you actually saw "Undercover Boss: The Hooters Incident" (I added the subtitle for effect) you'd have seen him visit a lovely Hooters manager aptly named "Jimbo" who had about as much class as that hillbilly couple on the Simpsons. The highlight of the Jimbo segment was when he made the waitresses eat a plate of refried beans with their hands tied behind their back to see who got to "leave early." He told the girls they were going to play his "Reindeer Games." What does that even mean? And who does he think he is, Ben Affleck? "Now why would anyone want to leave early with a manager like that," I wondered.

As the girls shoved their faces around in the beans, Undercover Boss just stood there with an uncomfortable look on his face. What he should have done was stuck Jimbo's face in a vat of boiling Hooter's Spicy Wing Sauce and told him to hit the road. Jesus, even Hooters girls deserve some respect. Because a no-hands bean eating contest is almost as bad as listening to Boz Skaggs with your boss.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

The "Bad Decision" Bowl

I just returned home from the grocery store (which was as crowded as the concession stand at an actual Superbowl) with an array of tasty treats to munch on. As I unloaded my bags, I looked down in disgust at what we'd purchased: Tostitos and microwaveable nacho cheese sauce, pizza sauce (at least we are making homemade crust), nitrate-infused pepperoni, those tacky football cupcakes with a fake plastic Superbowl ring shoved in the frosting, etc... It occurred to me at that very moment that the Superbowl is almost always a day of bad decisions. I mean really, what was I thinking when I grabbed that 6 pack of Smirnoff Ice (Bitter Apple flavored, no less)? Was I thinking, "Hey, let's pretend I'm sixteen again!" Or better yet, "I'm conducting an experiment to see just how bad of a headache I can give myself tomorrow.

Although I haven't been to a Superbowl party in probably 15 years (that's what happens when you don't have friends), I still have a few distant memories of bad-decision Superbowls from long ago. There's the 1987 Superbowl when Parker and I jumped in my Green '74 Cutlass Supreme and hit a teenage Superbowl party which basically consisted of consuming as much alcohol and store-brand cheese doodles as was humanly possible in a 3 hour span. What I remember most about that party however, is the inside of her toilet and looking over at one of our friends who was greener then an Irish Leprechaun. I think I had Social Responsibility homework that night too (it was a requirement in Catholic High School).

A few years later I went Superbowl party-jumping with one of my cocktail-waitress co-workers. Of that day I remember only 2 things: I was wearing black stretch pants with white raised flowers on them, white boots and candy-apple Cover Girl lipstick; and after a few drinks, we thought it was a great idea to go to the town's most notorious biker bar, sublty named "The Bashful Bandit". Once there I drank from glasses that were most certainly tainted with all sorts of communicable diseases - but the alcohol probably killed the germs. I'm not sure but I may have also danced to a Greg Allman song and possibly shot pool with a biker named "Tiny". Holy shit its amazing I'm still alive.

Enjoy your Superbowl Sunday - and all those bad decisions that go along with it! (But please don't drink and drive or worse, drink and "Biker Bar".

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

"I Was Made for prison"

As a pop-culture junkie, I just had to comment on the following stories:

Leif Garrett was just arrested for (wait for it)....heroin possession. This is like the umpteenth time he's been arrested for the same thing. Sheesh, lab rats are able to learn faster then poor Leif. Of course when I heard the news, the fist thing that came to my mind was "How can he even afford heroin?" My husband makes a pretty good living and I have a well paying job and I'm pretty sure even I couldn't afford a raging heroin addiction. Leif hasn't worked in 30 years and I've got to think the residual money for his hit song "I was made for Dancing" and the cameo he did on CHips (as a juvenile delinquent on roller skates - oh yes I saw it) has run dry by now. He's certainly no looker so I'm guessing upscale male prostitution is out the door. Then again, Leif was arrested at the Metro station in downtown LA, so he probably doesn't have to worry about pesky incidentals like a car payment or even a mortgage payment for that matter. You can plan on catching Leif in Season 4 of "Celeb Rehab".

I pride myself on the fact that I've never seen an episode of Jersey Shore. However, I feel like I've seen it 24 times over because those obnoxious bastards are everywhere. They were even invited to the Grammy's for god sakes. If you ask me, Leif Garrett should have been invited before those Oompa Loompas (at least he had a hit song once upon a time). Then yesterday I hear that nude Snooki photos may be leaked. Lord help us -what is it with these young girls and their nude pictures? In my teens I would have rather gone a year with cystic acne and my head shaved than take a nude picture. Doesn't anyone have any self-esteem issues anymore? If you ask me, today's youth has too much self esteem. Maybe if Snooki's mom had dropped hints about cutting down on pickles and Kit Kat bars, or told her that her "Poof" was to big and her skirt was too small, the world wouldn't have to hear about nude Snooki pics.

Lastly, someone just purchased this bronze sculpture for $104 MILLION dollars. And while I appreciate art as much as anyone (I even have a minor in Art History), I can't even fathom dishing out that kind of dough for anything let alone a sculpture of an anorexic dude, with the uber-imaginative name of "Walking Man 1". Does this mean there is a "Walking Man 2"? God, I wish I knew who bought this (the buyer is anonymous) because my life's mission would be to get myself invited to their house for lunch and then walk into their foyer and trip over that sculpture, breaking it into a million little bronze pebbles. I'd then give my Erkel surprise face and say "Did I do that?"

Monday, February 1, 2010

Two Middle Aged Gals Review the Grammys

We live for awards shows. The last few Grammy shows have been disappointing and nine times out of ten, when the winner is announced we find ourselves saying, "WHO?" - because that's what happens when you reach the age of 40. You become tragically unhip. This year was a pleasant surprise and we both actually really enjoyed the show (at least the first hour, then we both had to go to bed). Here's our next day "email review".

To: Val
From: Parker
RE: Grammys

When I imagined the greatness that would be Elton John and Lady Gaga singing a duet
together I pictured glitter glasses and was pleasantly surprised to see both of them donning the glitziest of glasses during their beyond genius performance. I could have watched all night. I thought it would be downhill from there, alas I was wrong.

Green Day and their American Idiot
Broadway cast were stellar and riveting to say the least.
Beyonce clearly had not ingested any sodium or carbs for many weeks prior to her performance, and did some dance moves that would have landed me in a full body cast. My eyes then were transfixed on Pink and her white satin ribbon camel-toe sheath. I have to say her performance was amaze-balls to say the least.

No offense to country artists I don't care about, but Miranda Lambert must have felt like a hippo when she waddled on stage in that baby blue taffeta monstrosity after Pink's performance. If I had to so much as walk on stage after Gaga, Green Day, Beyonce and Pink, I would basically have thrown my Janet Jackson headset on the floor and been like, "Ahhh sorry Ryan Seacrest producer guy, I think I have food poisoning."

By the way, check out the picture of Gaga. So many questions, like who is that strange guy she's holding hands with? Is he a cast member from the
Sorpanos? Perhaps her drug dealer? If so, I'd hold hands with him too, for keeping me so skinny. Most importantly, check out that dude behind her. I'd really love to know his story.

To: Parker
From: Val
RE: My Grammy Thoughts!

Gaga and Elton John were amazing, glitter glasses and all, but I could have done without the smeared dog shit (mud?) all over their faces - especially Elton, who really is too old to have smeared brown shit all over his face. Plus it totally clashed with his 9 carat, dangler diamond solar-system earring.

Beyonce's 14 minute routine I kept thinking how completely out of breath I would have been after the first 30 seconds - that is if I hadn't already completely biffed it on the stairs wearing those 16 inch glitter ankle boots.

Holy Christ, how on earth did Pink manage to sing on key while being spun like cotton candy for 5 minutes. I would have totally hurled on the audience below mid-routine, and then done a complete dramatic "drowning gasp" after being dunked in that tank of water. I also would have been digging the major leotard wedgie out of my ass the entire time and cursing under my breath after getting tangled beyond belief in that white sling. Of course at my current weight, it probably would have just ripped in half,
plummeting me below into the tub of water.

I missed the Michael Jackson tribute, but who the hell is that Cotton Eyed Joe band that won "Best New Artist". Is there a reason why country female artists always feel the need to wear the most sparkly Miss USA gowns while Country
male artists never seem to have issues with wearing ripped Lee jeans, embroidered shirts with metal darts on the collar, knitted homeless caps and a 2 week old scruffy beard? Speaking of Country singers, Keith Urban seems like such a nice guy and Nicole Kidman still always seems to have that giant rod up her ass.

Saw a pic of Jennifer Hudson on the Red
Carpet and I'm pretty sure she is more proportionally in shape than I am. Also saw a picture of Britney Spears who I think was wearing a black Speedo racing swimsuit with one of those sheer pool cover ups that you can get at TJ Maxx for $19.99. The black satin Bride's maid pumps completed the look. Can't daddy Spears spare some of her weekly allowance for a stylist who isn't stuck in the year 1992?